


His Honest Thought

by moonlighten



Category: Original Work
Genre: Armor, Fantasy, First Kiss, M/M, Magic, Shipoween Treat, Vaguely Medieval setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27270109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: Sir Benedict Desrosiers is inordinately interested in watching his new armour being forged.At least, that's what he tells the armourer who's forging it.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Very Attractive Male Knight/Gruff Male Armourer Forging His New Armour
Comments: 27
Kudos: 96
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	His Honest Thought

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



It's not unusual for William to have an audience whilst he labours in his workshop.

Most often, it comprises the mage, Beatrice Rolfe – who claims to find the repetitive clang of hammer striking iron soothing, unlike most, and thus a beneficial accompaniment to deep cogitation – but occasionally small groups of children gather at his always open door, drawn in by the spectacle of the showering sparks he raises at his anvil or the heat of his forge when the weather turns sour.

Today, he has attracted the attention of a young man who is a stranger to him. 

Bardenbrooke is a large town and William can't claim to know all its inhabitants by sight, but he's certain he would have noticed the man if their paths had ever happened to cross even glancingly in one of the nearby inns, or at market, or even at opposite ends of a crowded street. William's head would have been turned, regardless, because the man is a most arresting sight.

He's tall and trim, the close cling of his dark hose accentuating the long, lean lines of his legs just as the flattering cut of his deep red doublet emphasises the incongruously broad span of his well-built chest and shoulders. His hair shines like polished cherry wood where it catches the ruddy light cast out by the forge, and his eyes – lightly shadowed by the fan of his thick, dark lashes – hold that same, rich hue. His lips, generously full, are curled up a little at one corner, as though he's taking pleasure in some private joke.

He's so finely and fashionably turned out that William suspects he is not a local man at all but a traveller en route to a destination of far more consequence than Bardenbrooke, who had fetched up here due to some manner of misfortune. More than likely, a damaged carriage wheel; as William can turn his hand to a wheelwright's trade in a pinch, his name would be the first to come to the minds of his fellow townspeople in such circumstances.

He plunges the knife he's been shaping into the bucket of oil at his side to quench the blade, and then asks the man, "Can I help you, sir?"

The man's quirked half-smile unfurls into a wide grin. "I do hope so," he says, striding forward energetically. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Smith. My name is Benedict."

The hand he proffers for William to shake is slender, uncallused, and unadorned save for a gold signet ring worn on his index finger, engraved with a barbed, five petalled rose. A garland of that same flower is embroidered in crimson thread around the cuffs of his billowy white shirtsleeves. 

William might never have seen him before this day, but he has heard tell of him, of his ring, and of his favoured manner of dress. 

He is Sir Benedict Desrosiers. The Rose Knight – member of the king's inner circle of trusted courtiers, one of the most accomplished swordsmen under his command, and nephew and heir of the Earl of Bardenbrooke, whose estate lies several miles to the north of the town. 

The Earl has been gravely ill of late, not expected to see out the year's end, and rumours have been circulating for weeks that Sir Benedict had come to take care of him in his final days. William had been inclined to dismiss them previously as no-one he spoke to had seen hide nor hair of the man about the place, and it's well-known that relations between uncle and nephew have been severely strained for many years.

But here stands the truth in the flesh, smile straining around the edges and hand still expectantly outstretched. Too real to be dismissed, though William's dilatoriness in answering his greeting may have led Sir Benedict to think otherwise.

William's own hands are thickly callused, peppered with small burns and the scars of old ones long healed, and coated with a layer of grease and soot so thick and deeply ingrained that they are not appreciably any the cleaner after he's wiped them, quite vigorously, against the bib of his leather apron.

He does not offer one of them to Sir Benedict in turn, but instead bobs his head in a small bow, and says, "William le Ferrier, sir."

"The town armourer, I'd been told, and yet here I find you, busily engaged in the production of" – Sir Benedict steps aside to peer into the depths of William's quenching bucket – "tableware."

"General smithing's my bread and butter, sir," William says. "There aren't many people hereabouts in need of armour, save for the town guard and your uncle's knights."

Sir Benedict flinches as though startled upon mention of his uncle, his eyes rounding wide, but when he next speaks his voice is smooth and measured, no trace of his evident surprise lingering in his even tone.

"And it was one my uncle's knights who sent me to you," he says. "Sir Geoffrey showed me the armour you lately made for him, and when I admired its craftmanship, he gave me your name. 

"I'm to attend a tourney at the season's end in honour of the Crown Prince's forthcoming nuptials, and I would like to commission a new suit of plate from you for the occasion. I'm prepared to pay handsomely for it. Whatever price you normally ask, I'll double it."

As the season's end is only two months hence, William wouldn't have accepted anything less. Under such constraints, he will not have the time to spare to take on his usual smithing jobs to supplement his income, and envisages many long days bleeding into late nights spent toiling at his forge in order to complete the task to his own satisfaction.

Still, he does not quail at the prospect. He has little else to fill his hours but work nowadays, and any opportunity to practice his true craft is always a welcome one.

"Then I accept," he says. "Follow me, and I'll get you measured up, sir."

William leads Sir Benedict to a small room at the back of his workshop which is outfitted with a large lead glass mirror, the table that serves him as a shop counter, and very little else save for the heavy curtains hung at the sole window. These, he draws discreetly closed.

"If you'd like to take off your doublet, I'll fetch you a gambeson to wear," William says before retreating to his storeroom to retrieve his thirteen knot rope and a padded jacket that looks as though it might approximate Sir Benedict's size.

When he returns, Sir Benedict is stripped down to his shirtsleeves and hose and clearly suffering for it. He has both arms wrapped tight around his middle, is shivering fit to snap a bone, and his fair skin has taken on a distinct bluish tinge. William hadn't been aware that there was a chill in the room, but then he's never been troubled by the lack of a hearth there. He's always run hot, as though the fire of the forge has sunk so deep into his body after all his many years of working at one that it keeps him warm from within.

Sir Benedict accepts the gambeson eagerly enough, but the eye he casts over the knotted rope is a wary one.

"Are you going to measure me yourself?" he asks.

"I am."

"Oh." Sir Benedict's fine eyebrows arc high. "Don't you have an apprentice to do that sort of thing?"

"I used to." Walter had been twenty-two when William took him on – much too old to start an apprenticeship in the normal course of things, but he'd seemed so keen to learn, and Thurstan had recommended him so fervently and with such passion that William hadn't had the heart to turn him away in the end. "He left almost a year back."

And he hadn't left alone.

"You haven't felt the need to replace him?"

Many times – most times – William could have done with an extra pair of hands about the place to lighten his load, but he's also enjoyed being able to work at his own pace, and have the peace and quiet to be alone with his thoughts and enjoy his own company. Beatrice insists what he's really been doing is wallowing in his solitude; she may well be right, but William isn't quite ready to give it up yet, nonetheless.

"The blacksmith and his apprentice are always willing to help out if needs be," he says. "I'll get your armour made in time, come what may."

"I don't doubt it," Sir Benedict says with a ready smile, though it's quick to fade away once he's donned the gambeson and William asks him to stand with his arms outstretched from his sides so he can begin taking his measurements.

He holds himself very stiffly then, like a man bracing himself for a heavy blow, and when William leans in close to wrap the knotted rope around his chest, Sir Benedict's breathing grows shallow and his pulse jumps at the base of his throat. Glancing up at his face, William sees only the underside of his chin because Sir Benedict has turned his eyes heavenwards as though to avoid looking at him. 

He is, perhaps, uncomfortable with having a near-stranger standing so intimately close to him, hands skimming across his body as William measures out the circumference of his chest, his neck, his thigh. William tries to be quick about it and keep his own eyes averted, counting out the knots by touch alone.

When William is finished, Sir Benedict casts the gambeson aside with alacrity and grabs up his doublet, which he holds clasped close to his breast.

"Do you need anything more from me?" he asks in a thready voice. 

"Not right now, sir," William says. "I'll send word to your uncle's estate when you need to come in for another fitting. Should be about a fortnight's time, I reckon."

"Thank you, Master Smith," Sir Benedict says, stumbling into a clumsy bow. "Till we meet again."

He's still in the process of putting on his doublet as he hurries out the door.

* * *

  
Just two days pass before William looks up from his anvil and sees Sir Benedict lounging in his open doorway once more.

"I've barely made a start on your armour, sir," William says. "I had a number of other commissions to fulfil first."

"I haven't come about the armour," Sir Benedict says. "I was hoping I might watch you at your work again. I found it fascinating before; extremely educational. I'm not a practical man, Master Smith. Not very good with my hands, so to speak."

"Except when you've got a sword or a lance in them, by all accounts."

Sir Benedict snorts laughter. "True enough, but it's a different story entirely when I'm instead wielding a paintbrush or whittling knife." He takes a diffident step forward, over the door's threshold and into the workshop. "So, would you mind if I stayed?"

William shrugs. "You wouldn't be the first, sir." He can't understand the attraction doing so himself; though he loves his work, he imagines it probably looks dully repetitive from the outside and therefore of scant value as entertainment. The Earl's estate must be sorely lacking in diversions for Sir Benedict to have sought him out again so soon. "As long as you can stay as quiet as you did the other day, then, no, I don't mind if you stay."

"I shall take my cues from the proverbial mouse," Sir Benedict promises, and with that he seats himself upon the little wooden stool set just to the left of the doorway, where Thurstan used to sit of an evening so he could make use of the last light of the day as he wove his nets.

Sir Benedict may be a little taller and have significantly less grey hair at his temples but, squinting at him through the clouds of smoke and steam billowing about the workshop, William could almost imagine that Thurstan had returned and taken up the place which used to belong to him.

Though the impression is a disconcerting one, it's not one that troubles William overlong as Sir Benedict is good to his word and stays so silent and so still that William could almost forget he was there at all and soon loses himself to the familiar rhythms of his work once more.

* * *

  
Sir Benedict stayed close on an hour that day – long enough, William supposed, to have drunk his fill of the armourer's trade.

But four days later he returns in the same quiet way and makes the same quiet request. William can't think of a decent reason to deny him.

He is followed only moments later by Beatrice, who is carrying a thick, dog-eared book which William recognises at a glance, as it has accompanied her sporadic visits for the past month or more: a tome of ancient magical lore that – she has complained to William near every one of those visits – is so densely and impenetrably written that she can barely get through a page of it before being overcome by the desire to down a stiff drink and then cast the book into the nearest privy.

Sir Benedict springs to his feet and offers her first an extravagant bow and thereafter his full name and title. If Beatrice is surprised to discover William's companion is a knight and nephew to the Earl, she gives no outward indication of it. Her expression does not falter from its habitual resting scowl.

"Beatrice Rolfe," she says, briskly shaking Sir Benedict's hand. "Mage, and neighbourhood curmudgeon, according to some. If you're looking for conversation, Sir Knight, I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you. I've come here to read; the clamour helps me concentrate."

With that, she takes her usual seat upon the old packing crate she's claimed as her own, opens her book, and bends her head over it industriously.

Sir Benedict looks to William, his eyes filled with laughter and his furrowed brow bespeaking a silent question. William can only shrug in answer to it, as unable to provide an explanation for Beatrice's behaviour as Sir Benedict is to understand it.

The three of them carry on in mutual silence thereafter until the bells in the nearby chapel clock tower begin pealing to announce midday, whereupon Sir Benedict once again takes his leave.

Beatrice had clearly been far more intrigued by him than she'd cared to reveal in his presence, for the moment Sir Benedict has safely moved out of earshot, she asks William, quite bluntly, "What on earth was he doing here?"

"He commissioned a suit of plate from me," William says. "Apparently, he's interested in the forging of it."

"So, he comes here to sit and say nothing and do nothing but watch you work for a while?"

"He does."

"How peculiar." Beatrice wrinkles her nose. "Well, nobles often do get seized by strange whims and fancies, but they tend to tire of them in short order, too. No doubt he'll get bored of it all soon enough."

Beatrice worked for the Earl for many years before she saved up enough coin to buy her own small workshop, and thus knows more about the habits and foibles of nobles than William ever will.

No doubt she's right, and, "No doubt he will," William agrees.

* * *

  
Contrary to Beatrice's speculation, Sir Benedict returns to the workshop two days later, and two days after that, and two after _that_ , adding a novel beat to that steady, familiar rhythm of William's work and life.

And by no means an unwelcome one, even though he becomes ever more garrulous with each subsequent visit – full of questions about each and every aspect of armour making; what techniques William uses and why. William rarely has enough breath or concentration to spare to give him more than a curt or word or two in reply, but Sir Benedict takes no offence at his brusqueness, and when William has no breath at all, he busies himself by performing small tasks to make William's work easier – fetching fresh buckets of water, feeding the forge, and even sweeping the workshop floor – such as Walter would have done if he were still there in William's employ.

He also lingers a little longer with each subsequent visit – long enough that, by the close of the month, he stays one day to take his luncheon with William.

Sir Benedict buys them pork pies from the butcher, so fresh that they're still warm from the oven, and a jug of ale to share from the inn. They sit side by side upon the small stone bench in the courtyard outside the workshop, crammed so close together that they can neither one of them raise an arm or shift position without jostling the other. Even though William is all covered over with sweat and charcoal dust, Sir Benedict doesn't seem to mind, as he doesn't try to move away.

Whilst they eat, Sir Benedict regales William with stories of his fellow knights and distant battles fought in the service of their king. William knows very little about such things and has nothing to say for himself in consequence, so he just enjoys the opportunity to indulge in some watching of his own for a spell, because Sir Benedict shines even more brightly out here in the sunlight than he does in the glow of the forge.

* * *

  
Although Sir Benedict's animation increases with each passing week, his satisfaction with the armour William has been forging him seems to decrease in equal portion.

Looking at it now, set out on its stand and lacking all but a last, buffing polish and a few finishing touches, he makes no attempt to disguise his frown as he normally does and even appends a despondent sigh.

"Is something wrong?" William asks him yet again, though he expects no other answer than the now customary vague yet encouraging platitudes.

"No, nothing's wrong," Sir Benedict says. "The armour's beautiful, just as I knew it would be. But there is… There is something _lacking_ in it."

"Lacking?" William says, frowning himself now. He can't think of a single thing he's overlooked, having followed Sir Benedict's directions in every particular.

"Through no fault of your own," Sir Benedict hastens to add. "I'm afraid that what I wanted wasn't clear in my own mind at the start, and now that it is, it's perhaps too late to do anything about it.

"Sadly, the time's fast approaching when I'll have to hang up my sword and turn my attentions to estate management. This coming tourney is like to be my last, and I want to stand out; to make a lasting impression so I'll be remembered even if I do never perform for an audience again."

He opens the leather satchel he had brought with him and extracts a slim book. "I read something in here that I thought would be suitable, and I—"

He pauses in the act of handing the book to William, his cheeks pinking, but William snatches it from him before he can start stammering out the apologies that are surely gathering on his lips.

"I can read, sir," William reassures him. Although his father is illiterate, he's a great believer in the power of books, and insisted William attend the local petty school for years before he even began his apprenticeship. A man's always the richer if he learns his numbers and letters, he's fond of saying, even if the knowing of them never makes him any more coin. "And I see you've already marked the right page."

William turns to it to read an unnecessarily protracted and grandiloquent passage describing a knight – purported to be a real historical figure – who wore armour enchanted to shimmer with all the colours of the rainbow.  
  
William has never heard of such a thing, much less seen it. He has made enchanted armour before, but the magic woven through the metal then was meant to protect the wearer, not dazzle the senses.

But it makes no odds, either way, because laying any sort of enchantment on Sir Benedict's armour is impossible now.

"Can't be done," William says, as gently as he's able, knowing that he's certain to disappoint. "Iron's no friend of magic, and it won't settle in steel. Though" – he adds, after thinking on it some more – "I could always make an engraving on the breastplate and inlay it with copper or some other metal that _will_ hold magic. Only the inlaid part would shine then but I'll do it, if that'd suit."

Sir Benedict beams at him. "I think that would be perfect; even better than what I had in mind, in fact. A rose, I think, would be the most fitting for the engraving."

William smiles back. "Of course. And Beatrice can do the enchanting; though, just to warn you, she charges a pretty penny for her services."

"Money is, as ever, no object," Sir Benedict says. "I'll pay whatever she asks."

Before he leaves again, Sir Benedict removes his signet ring and passes it to William, calling it, "A guide for the engraving."

It's solid gold and likely worth more than William earns in a year, if not two.

"I can't take this!" he protests, trying to press the ring into Sir Benedict's hand, but he stubbornly refuses to have it back.

"I trust you to take care of it," he says, "and to return it to me when it's due."

* * *

Beatrice whistles appreciatively through her teeth when she sees the breastplate, newly emblazoned with Sir Benedict's heraldic rose, inlaid with copper.

"Pretty armour," she says, looking sidelong at William. "Pretty man, too. He's taken quite the fancy to you."

William's face feels to burn as hot as his forge. "I'm sure not."

"And I'm sure so," Beatrice insists. "I see a lot of things you don't when you're hammering away at metal and not paying him any notice. He watches you like you're the only thing in the world worth seeing."

"He's much too fine to be interested in the likes of me," William says, shaking his head firmly.

"I don't see why that would have to be true," Beatrice says. "From certain angles and in the right light, you're a handsome man, and you're definitely what the more fanciful of writers like to call well-thewed. That has a certain appeal to some, and I imagine it's safe to say that Sir Benedict can be counted amongst their number."

"But he's a knight and—"

"Yes, yes, and heir to the Earl." Beatrice waves William's words aside with an irritable flap of her hands. "Look, I'm not saying he's poised ready to ask for your hand in marriage, but I do think he wants to enjoy your company more intimately." Her voice softens slightly. "Thurstan's been gone a year now, and you've barely cracked a smile since then. I think it would do you good to try happiness on for size again, Will; you might find that you like the fit."

* * *

  
In the brilliant light cast out by his new armour, donned in full for the first time, Sir Benedict looks so radiant, so magnificent, that William is transfixed by him.

Sir Benedict himself seems mesmerised by his own reflection. "You've outdone yourself, William. It's exquisite," he breathes. "Too exquisite to wear, I think. I wouldn't want it to get damaged. It's a work of art."

"No, it isn't," William says, surprising himself with his daring in contradicting a noble so baldly. "It isn't a painting or tapestry, something to be hung on a wall and admired at a distance. The beauty of it is all in the wearing and doing the job it was made to do – protecting you." 

He ends far less certain than he began, and falters into flustered silence, fearing that he might have dealt Sir Benedict a grievous insult.

But Sir Benedict looks thoughtful rather than angry. "Then I shall wear it," he says at length, tearing his gaze away from the mirror to settle it upon William. "I wouldn't want to insult your hard work."

All that remains then is to help Sir Benedict out of his armour, pack it away, and settle payment. Sir Benedict hands William a bulging purse containing far more coins than even the generous amount they'd agreed upon after William completed his inlay work, and remains unmoved by William's argument that it's too much and he should take back the excess.

There's no reason to keep him any longer after that, and he will have no excuse now to continue his visits to the workshop. William will probably not see him again until after he has inherited his uncle's title and needs, someday, to commission armour for one of his own knights.

He wishes he could ask him to stay, just to pass the time together and maybe even more, but Beatrice's assurances of Sir Benedict's interest in that quarter were not sufficient to give him the courage to press forward. She had been wrong about the ways of nobles once and may well be wrong again; William could be a passing whim and fancy, nothing more, and he doesn’t want to shame himself by presuming any different.

He walks with Sir Benedict back through the workshop to the door, and on the threshold Sir Benedict hesitates, silent for a moment and scraping the heel of his boot back and forth against the stone floor. 

"I've been thinking," he says eventually, gaze fixed unwaveringly on his feet, "that I will likely need a sword even after I give up being a knight. If the worst happens, I'll still be expected to fight in our King's defence, after all. The sword I have is a battered old thing, though; hardly fit for an Earl. Can you make swords, William?"

"I can," William says, hope swelling warm in his chest.

A slow smile spreads across Sir Benedict's lips. "Then, when I return from my tourney, we'll have to meet again to discuss my commissioning one."

* * *

  
On the evening before Sir Benedict is due to ride out to the capital for his tourney, he arrives at the workshop just as William is closing it up for the day. He has a bottle of wine in hand, which he raises high when William turns around after bolting the door and catches his eye.

"I thought we could drink a toast," he says, "to my inevitable victory in the tourney."

"You're that certain you'll win?" William asks.

Sir Benedict laughs. "With your marvellous armour to protect me, how could I lose!"

William scrounges up two dusty clay cups from his storeroom, Sir Benedict pours a generous measure from his bottle into each, and they both take a seat on the bench in the courtyard to drink it, shoulders brushing together once more.

Sir Benedict talks with great enthusiasm about the capital and tournaments past and, as he did the last time they sat in this selfsame spot in the selfsame way, William – having little else to bring to the conversation – just lends him an interested ear, and enjoys the smooth, lilting cadences of his voice and the heat of his body blending with his own.

And he drinks. The wine is sour and a little vinegary, but it's strong – far stronger than the ale he's accustomed to drinking. It pools warmly in his belly and flows hot through his veins, dulling to the mind but invigorating to the spirit. With each cup William drinks, his courage grows, and when the hour grows late and Benedict rises to take his leave, he feels confident and assured enough to lay a hand against his arm and ask him to, "Wait." And tell him, "I have something for you."

From the purse hung at his belt, he takes out the gift he's carried there these past two weeks - waiting on the right moment that never seemed to arise - and presents it to Sir Benedict. It's just a token – a small disc of steel inlaid with a tiny rose in copper, made from the scraps left over from the forging of Sir Benedict's armour. Beatrice had enchanted it, as well, but only to spark in silver and gold and not every colour there is.

Sir Benedict receives it from him with careful hands, as though it's a precious thing. "Is this a favour?" he asks, his voice hushed almost to a whisper.

William's breath stands still in his chest. His heart races on. 

He had meant the token as nothing more than a good luck charm, and he almost says as much, but a single glance at Sir Benedict's face stops him dead in his tracks. He looks shocked, certainly, but there's also a sort of quiet delight infusing his expression which gives William hope enough that it emboldens him to say:

"If you would like it to be."

"I would." The words are ardently spoken. "I will fight in your name in the tourney, William. And I'll dedicate my victory to you, too."

He presses a brief, glancing kiss to the centre of the token and then reaches out to pull William into an embrace so tight and so close that the thundering beats of his heart feel to be pounding against William's own ribs

The kiss that Sir Benedict now presses to William's lips is decidedly less chaste.


End file.
